


the grey in between

by kuro49



Series: thirty days of writing '18 [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drabble, Multi, Pre-Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 07:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: The story is intriguing to start and the characters are just her type. This ending though, that's something else all together.





	the grey in between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakakc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakakc/gifts).



> prompt: scars under your eyes.
> 
> this is an oldie but a goodie just like you, happy bday for the time being while i crank out your request.

 

She imagines this is just like the way it is in the movies.

A black and white picture with greys in between when in movement. With his suit looking so sharp, a face in a stern profile that razor edged and almost enough to cut herself on. The story is intriguing to start and the characters are just her type. 

 

The first protagonist is a brute but he is a kind one too.

Illya Kuryakin's words, when they come, are clipped and short but the underlying intentions are clear, almost overtly so. And she wonders how subtlety works with this whole spy thing when he loves her like he has never loved anyone before. She can’t help but resent that if just a little bit for how easy he shows it like an opened palm asking for a dance she don't know the steps to.

 

The second protagonist is is a good man placed in a very compromising situation, once, then once more and the temptation is severe.

Napoleon Solo has a way with words, smart with his mouth and his hands and it gets him into trouble just as much as they get him out of it. When his hands eclipse hers, she frowns because this feels inevitable from the start when he finds her in East Berlin. A story coming back in full circle even when there is no moral to learn from it.

 

Gabriella Teller is no heroine. She is still counting down the days until the implosion happens. It is bound to, that much she is certain of. Match at the ready, ignition line at hand. All it takes is a single spark for it all to go up in smoke.

She has no intention of being anyone’s destiny.

She tells them both like it could be some kind of declaration. “You do not know what I want.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.” Solo answers, smooth like bourbon on ice even as he keeps a lookout at the corner with his pistol concealed just so. 

Gaby itches to dig her nails into the soft column of Solo’s throat and she is finding it harder and harder to look to Illya and not see the _wanting_ bared to the world like someone has gutted it out from deep inside of him.

“Ask me.” She says and it is calm, the opposite of all the places they have been to and all the ones they will go, the turbulence that arise has her rocking back to press all the weight of her body on the heel of her feet as she stands right in the center of it all.

“Gabriella Teller,” Illya asks just as she requested, biting out each syllable like it will ever have a chance of easing that ache inside of his chest for her. “What _do_ you want?”

Her sunglasses hide her eyes and the lights in the long stretching hallway of one bad man's lair leave shadows thrown across her face when Illya glances to her even as his fingers continue to work at the contraption keeping them out of the worst of this man's dirty secrets. She looks like she’s got scars under her eyes but that might just be the fan of lashes behind the tinted lenses or the smudge of concealer that doesn't quite hide the bruises from her last tussle with the near-end of the world.

“I want,” she pauses because she can see how it makes them wilt not to be able to anticipate her words, “to take the lead in the next mission.”

There is a silence where she waits and then Napoleon is raising an eyebrow while Illya raises both hands in defeat.

 

She has been laying down the sense of foreboding for quite a long while now, thick and almost tactless to a point. She figures there aren’t many movies out there that end like this: With Illya Kuryakin on his knees, Napoleon Solo with his mouth shut, and not one of them dead in this place.

When she smiles, it goes sweet again because it is no secret, she is in love.

The thrill in an ending like this is always hers for the taking.

 


End file.
